Purgatory
by Freya-Kendra
Summary: After Joe is attacked by Apaches, Ben faces the ultimate sacrifice, Adam is drawn into a fight to the death, Hoss prepares for the worst, and Joe prays for the unthinkable. This is a tale of strength, courage …and the limits of human endurance.


Note: Ben's words in part 3 are quoted from the episode "A Quality of Mercy"

**Purgatory**

**1**

Purgatory. Is that where he was? That place where God put you if you weren't quite good enough for Heaven or bad enough for Hell?

If so, then it really wasn't much of a place at all. Or maybe he just wasn't being given much of an opportunity to see what kind of a place it really was. When he opened his eyes, all he could see was…white.

Not the white of purity—no, not that kind of white. There was nothing about this white to remind him of angels. There was nothing fresh about it like linens blowing in a sweet, spring breeze. No. The only breeze that blew here must come straight from Satan's furnace. It pushed at him like a playful child with a twisted heart catching a rabbit in a snare and then prodding it with a red-hot poker. He swayed to and fro in that fiery breeze, each movement filling his ears with the whoosh of a blacksmith's bellows and the creak of a branch long dead but not quite brittle enough to break.

A dead, white branch in a dead, white desert.

That was the white he saw when he opened his eyes.

Joe Cartwright was surrounded by the white of a blazing sun, the kind that'll burn you sightless if you look too long or too hard…by the white of soil that's had the life singed out of it, leaving nothing but colorless dust and empty sand.

Colorless dust and empty sand.

That was all he saw. All he breathed. All he knew. He drank it in until every swallow left a trail of razors and broken glass in his throat.

_Why?_ he asked in the silence of his mind, knowing there would be no hope of pushing any sound past all that glass.

What had he done to justify being snared like a mindless rabbit in a place that offered no hope of life and taunted him with death? He wasn't mindless, despite the things Adam might say now and again. He had a mind, and a pretty good one, too. He'd done everything right. But it didn't much matter when those Apaches came around. They didn't care whether or not Joe got a better price than he'd hoped for on that horse he'd bought for Adam. Or the fact that he got a second horse practically for nothing when the man doing the selling wanted Joe to set his sights on something other than his daughter.

No. All those Apaches cared about was Joe had three good horses. Apparently they needed horses, so they figured they'd take Joe's.

There must have been something more to it than that, though. They didn't tie that rope around his hands to keep him from running. He wasn't about to go running or even walking away with two arrows in him. Fact was, he was probably already dead when they hung him from the tree like that, with that rope around his wrists, like a piece of meat drying in the sun.

He was a message. Had to be they were sending a message, a warning. Maybe Joe had wandered in to the start of an uprising. Maybe he was just the first to die.

It was strange though. He couldn't remember dying.

He could remember getting hit. Two arrows practically both at once pierced his shoulder and thigh. He came down hard on that dead, white sand, felt it digging into his cheek like all that broken glass in his throat, and then… then he opened his eyes to all this white, finding himself in Purgatory hanging by his wrists, suspended in a red-hot poker breeze.

_Why?_ he asked again, silently and desperately. _I'm sorry, God. I'm sorry. For whatever it is I've done…I'm sorry._

That poker seared his shoulder again, sending him writhing in Satan's wind until the pull on his wrists grew sharper. It still wasn't sharp enough to cut the ropes. But it was sharp enough to be real, and real enough to elicit a moan through those razors in his throat.

The whoosh of the bellows in Satan's forge filled Joes ears once more as the pressure in his head rose from a dull ache to an agonizing throb. He felt another thin line of precious tears spill from the corners of his dry eyes, tracing along the now familiar trail of grit on his face. And he realized he wasn't quite dead after all. At least, not yet.

His prayer changed then.

_Oh, God. Please. Just make it be over. Please, God. Please, just let me die!_

**2**

"Pa!" Hoss cried out. "He moved. Did you see that? He moved, I tell ya!' He's still alive."

"Yes, Hoss. I saw." Pa's voice was soft and empty sounding. Hoss figured it sounded about as empty as all three of them had felt from the moment they realized it was Little Joe out there.

When Hoss had first stumbled upon the standoff between U.S. Army troops and what looked to be half a dozen Apache tribes, he had seen a lone figure between them, swinging from a tree. He'd been too far away to get a clear view, and too sickened by the sight to even allow himself to think it might be Joe. All he'd known at the time was something big was brewing. It looked like a war was about to start, and as far as Hoss knew, Joe was somewhere on the other side of it.

"Why, Hoss?" Pa asked after Hoss had ridden back to warn him and Adam. "What reason could Joe possibly have had to go back to the Tucker ranch now? That was a hard drive we just finished. It's high time we got home."

"It was a surprise, Pa. He figured it's only a couple hours' ride, and, well, he wanted to get that horse Adam had his eye on."

"What?" Adam had been surprised alright. "Why? It was just a horse. We've already got plenty of horses."

"Yeah, but we both saw how much you liked that Appaloosa, Adam. Horse like that, it's special. And Joe, well, he wanted to do somethin' special for you. I guess he's been feelin' kind'a bad about all that arguin' you two been doin' lately."

Now it was Adam who was feeling bad.

No, Hoss decided. Adam was feeling a whole lot worse than bad. He was staring at that tree, staring at his little brother swinging from that branch like he wanted to knock it down with his bare hands. And not just the tree, neither. That look in Adam's eye made it clear he wanted to go after every one of them Apaches all by himself. He'd probably kill a good number of them too, before they killed him.

Of course, Hoss wasn't feeling much different.

But as it was, nobody was doing anything.

Colonel Miller called this situation a powder keg. He had sent men out a couple of times to try to cut Joe down, but each time those Apaches shot arrows toward them. Not at them, the colonel pointed out, just toward them. They were warning shots, and the colonel was duty bound to heed those warnings. If even one of his men was hit, his troops would be just as duty bound to start shooting. And once that happened, it would be war alright. A whole lot of men would die. The colonel couldn't let that happen for the sake of one young man they thought might already be dead anyway. It didn't matter to him that young man was Little Joe. But it sure did matter to Hoss—and to Pa and Adam.

Now they were all waiting there together, each side watching the other. Both sides were itching to fight, but something was holding each of them back. For the Army troops, that something was the colonel's orders. He said those orders came all the way from Washington. For the Apache though, not even the colonel was sure what was holding them up. He thought maybe they were waiting for Cochise himself to lead them.

Whatever the reasons, the air was thick with tension. Hoss could smell it, almost like he could smell lightning in a batch of storm clouds. Glancing up at the sky, Hoss found it kind of strange to see how blue it was. There wasn't a single cloud up there today.

It didn't matter. Hoss could smell it just the same.

**3**

Joe was still alive. He didn't understand it. He didn't want to understand it. All he knew was he didn't want to be alive anymore. Not like this. His shoulders were both screaming from the weight of his own body pulling unremittingly against the rope at his wrists. His wrists felt like ground meat, chafed raw and burning in the sun. And those Apaches' arrows were still buried in his flesh, one digging deep into the skin just beneath his right shoulder-blade, the other even deeper in his right thigh.

He shouldn't be alive. He didn't want to be.

Please, God, he prayed again. Please let it be over.

"Nature's always working for survival," Pa's voice called out, filling Joe's mind, booming past the blacksmith's whooshing bellows. "Not destruction."

Pa?

"A man, when he's in bad pain," Pa went on, "he doesn't know what he's saying. His body is fighting for survival, and his mind isn't always aware of that. It's suffering the pain, so he begs to die, but he shouldn't be listened to."

He should, Pa. You have to listen. Please listen.

"Listen only to the pulse of life," Pa said. "Fight with it, not against it."

I can't, Pa. I can't fight anymore.

"Listen only to the pulse of life."

The pulse of life? Was that the sound of the bellows? The whoosh filling his ears, the pounding in his head?

"Fight with it, not against it."

Help me, Pa.

But Pa wasn't there. Not really. His voice was a memory, his words referring to another man, at another time. Would he say the same if he knew it was Joe who was suffering?

"Listen only to the pulse of life. Fight with it, not against it."

Oh, God, it hurts, Pa! I can't. I just can't fight anymore.

"Nature's always working for survival, not destruction."

This isn't survival, Pa. Please. Please, Pa. Let me die!

No. Pa couldn't help him. Pa wasn't there. He wasn't listening. Joe was alone. He was alone with a white-hot desert and a God who refused to let him die. Why?

Joe opened his eyes the tiniest bit, unwilling to let in all that white, all at once. It burned, even that small amount, and the movement of his lids scraped more than slid as they lifted like glass-strewn shades from his eyes. But he had to try. Maybe God refused to see him, because he'd refused to see God. And maybe God refused to listen only because Joe had failed to voice his prayer aloud.

"Please, God," He rasped in a voice that sounded like the phantom in a ghost story as he struggled to lift the heavy weight of his head toward the sky.

He saw something then, something like…people. But they were too far away, and…and standing so still.

"Help me," he said, though his own ears could barely make sense of the words.

For a moment, for just a brief, fleeting second, he thought he saw his pa and brothers. But they, too, were standing still. And so very far away.

"He shouldn't be listened to," Pa said.

He has to be, Joe said without words. I have to be. Please, Pa. Listen to me.

Joe lifted his head higher, desperate to find the sky. "Please, God," he rasped aloud when it was clear his pa wasn't listening. "Let me die."

Maybe God heard him that time, because something happened. It was as though the sun came down to brand his heart. His chest grew tight. His breath caught and held. The whooshing faded in his ears. And the pain…. The pain moved away, fading into the distance as white gave way to black.

**4**

"Pa?" Hoss said softly, his gaze locked on Little Joe.

Joe had lifted his face to the sun, almost as though he'd heard the voice of God. And then…. Then Joe went still. He just went absolutely still. There wasn't even a twitch to let them know he was still alive.

"I know, Hoss," Pa said. "I know."

Pa turned away then, heading once again toward the colonel. Hoss looked to Adam, and then both followed wordlessly behind. There was something in the set of Pa's shoulders this time. It was like he was standing taller, like…like he had made a decision, one the colonel couldn't turn him away from.

"I'm going after my son," Pa told him.

The colonel shook his head. "You know I can't allow that. We—"

"You," Pa interrupted, "have orders. I do not. I am going after my son. Since I am not in uniform, it is possible the Apache won't attack, but if they do, then so be it. Your men will be under no obligation to shoot back. My death will not need to be the start of a war."

"Mr. Cartwright, I can't—"

"You can. You must. My son is dying, Colonel. I can not sit here any longer and watch it happen. I won't."

"My men—"

"Order your men to hold their fire. No matter what."

The colonel looked hard at Pa, and then focused his gaze on Adam and Hoss, each of whom nodded in turn, making it clear their pa had spoken for them as well. They were all going after Joe. Either the Army or the Apaches might try to stop them, but nothing short of death would keep them from trying.

After Pa mounted up, he looked to both Hoss and Adam with something like resignation in his eyes. It was clear he didn't want his other sons to join him. No man could want his whole family, his entire legacy to die with him. It was also clear he knew he had no choice. None of them could turn away from Joe. And neither Hoss nor Adam would consider letting their pa do this on his own.

They rode forward slowly and quietly, leaving side arms and rifles behind. This had to be about Joe, not fighting. Hoss knew as well as any of them they had to make those Apaches believe that. Pa did have a knife on him, but he didn't make any attempt to hide it, holding it up for everyone to see and pointing it toward that rope holding Joe to that branch.

As Hoss watched those Apaches watching them, he noticed something beginning to stir over there, and it about made him swallow his stomach. He could hear movement behind him, too. Those Army men saw what was happening as clear as Hoss. If there was tension before, it had just increased about a hundred-fold.

_Don't do it_, he prayed deep inside his mind. _Please God, don't let them do it_. He wasn't even sure which side he was praying about. Both, he supposed. Don't let those Apaches fire off any arrows, or the colonel's side fire off any of them rifles. Just don't let them do it. Don't let any of them do it.

But the more Hoss watched, the less it looked as though the Apaches were getting ready to attack. They were just watching, staring at them with a real keen interest and…and parting to let one of their own move forward, a painted warrior riding a familiar Appaloosa.

Hoss's stomach was about ready to come back up on him when he saw Adam eyeing both that warrior and his horse, and that warrior eyeing him right back.

"Nothing matters but Joe right now, Adam," Hoss warned.

"I know," Adam answered without turning his gaze.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

If there was still any question as to which of them Apaches had done this to Joe, it was answered now. That warrior started parading in front of the rest of them Indians, holding Joe's saddle bag above his head, like it was some kind of trophy.

Thank God, Hoss thought dismally. It was just Joe's saddle bag. It could have been his scalp.

And then, "Adam?" Hoss called out softly. "Does it seem strange to you they didn't kill Joe outright? Or…." Hoss swallowed rising bile. "Or scalp him?"

"Yes," Adam said, still watching that warrior.

"Why do you think that is?"

"Maybe because they're following orders just like the colonel is."

"Then why'd they attack him?"

"Attacking him showed the Army not to ignore them as a threat. Leaving him alive probably prevented the Army from addressing it as an act of war."

Reaching Joe, both Adam and Hoss stopped in synch with their pa, but kept their eyes on the Apaches.

"Don't ignore the rest of 'em on account of that one, Adam." Hoss started to side-step toward where Pa had already ridden up beside Joe and was now easing their young brother's legs onto the horse in front of him.

"Just see to Joe," Adam answered. "I'll let you know if they—"

Adam rose higher in his saddle. "Hoss?"

"I see it."

Several of the warriors had bows up and ready.

"Help Pa," Adam said then. "With any luck, they'll just shoot out a few warnings, like they did with Colonel Miller's men."

"I don't know about you, but I ain't feeling too lucky."

An instant later, four arrows landed in the ground barely six feet from Hoss and Adam.

"It's just a warning," Adam said. "Let's do what we came out here to do."

"Adam?" Hoss continued to stare hard at those Apaches. A moment later, he added, "Thank you."

"For what?"

"My whole life you've been lookin' out for me. And then Joe. I just want to make sure you know…I appreciate it, is all. I know Joe does too, even if it don't seem like it most of the time."

Adam finally pulled his eyes from the line of Indians ahead of them. Hoss did too, meeting his brother's gaze long enough to see Adam's small smile.

"I wish there was more I could do right now than look out," Adam said.

"I know." With that, Hoss turned away to help Pa.

**5**

Ben had never felt more weighted down with grief than when he took hold of Joe's limp body, aware down to the core of his being how unresponsive, how utterly lifeless his young son appeared at that moment. Perhaps it was too soon to mourn—he prayed it was too soon, and too soon by years rather than moments—but it was not too soon to grieve for what had been done to Little Joe, for what he had been forced to endure. And all for the sake of what? A horse? A gift from one brother to another? That Joe should be punished and so severely for such an act of…of love, of endearment…. It was simply unthinkable. And yet here Joe was, barely alive, if in fact he was alive at all. It was impossible for Ben to tell whether his young son still drew breath, or whether Joe's heart still pumped blood.

Blood. It was thick on Joe's shirt and trousers, but shouldn't it still be flowing? Joe's wounds were hours old, the spent blood already thickening, congealing around the arrowheads still lodged in his flesh, perhaps preventing fresh blood from spilling out.

"Pa?"

Hoss's voice barely penetrated Ben's thoughts as he cautiously positioned Joe's legs across the saddle in front of him, trying hard not to disturb the arrow in Joe's right thigh.

"Pa?" Hoss called again.

Finally, Ben turned his head, meeting Hoss's troubled gaze.

"Why don't you hand me that knife," Hoss suggested. "I'll take care of the rope."

"Yes," Ben nodded. "Thank you."

Pulling the knife from his belt, Ben gripped it by the blade to hand it to his middle son.

"Hoss?" He waited until Hoss's gaze met his before relinquishing the blade, his own eyes briefly shifting to the fresh round of arrows in the ground nearby. "I'm sorry, son. I was wrong. You shouldn't be out here. You and Adam both, you should have stayed with the soldiers."

Hoss's brows came down in harsh, almost angry confusion. "You oughtta know it wouldn't have mattered. You'd of had to hog-tie us to get us to stay there."

Ben smiled sadly, warmly, and then nodded once more. "Let's get this finished."

"Yeah." Hoss took the knife and raised it up to the rope while Ben wrapped his arms around Joe's chest.

Holding Joe should have given Ben comfort. Instead it filled him with heartache and dread. He had to adjust his grip more than once to keep himself from pressing against the arrow shaft protruding from Joe's shoulder. And no matter what he did, no matter how he moved, he could feel the pull of that shaft against flesh and bone—against Joe's flesh and bone.

Ben found it a struggle to avoid shivering despite the fierce desert heat.

"Keep at it, Hoss," Adam's voice called out from somewhere beside him.

Alerted by the tension in Adam's tone, Ben looked toward the Apaches. Once again, they were readying a volley of arrows. Once again, it was impossible to determine how many they might fire, and what—or who would draw their aim.

"Almost got it," Hoss said.

A dull thwump beside Ben pulled his eyes to the arrow now lodged in the trunk of the tree.

"Almost," Hoss repeated.

"Hoss…." Adam warned.

"There!"

Ben sagged and his horse edged backward just a trace when Joe's full weight came down upon them. But he'd been ready for it.

"Let's go!" He told his sons, looking to each of them—making sure they understood and were ready to follow him— before kicking his own horse into action.

Riding as fast as he dared, Ben was nearly halfway to the line of soldiers when he saw several men raise their rifles. That couldn't be. It shouldn't be. Ben had insisted Colonel Miller tell his men not to fire, not under any condition. Were these men so young or ill-trained they would defy the colonel's order? Or was something changing behind Ben, something larger than the types of conditions both Ben and Colonel Miller might have considered?

Part of him wanted to quicken his pace. Another part was desperate to turn around, to look behind him, worried for Adam and Hoss.

He kept going. He had to. Joe's life depended on it.

"Hold your fire!" Colonel Miller shouted. "Do not fire!"

That's it! Ben pleaded silently. Restrain your men! One rifle shot, yes just one could signal the start of a war both sides had been anxiously awaiting—and perhaps even anxiously avoiding—a war that would catch Ben and all three of his sons at its center.

All for the sake of a single horse.

Was it truly hopeless? A sense of foreboding came down upon Ben with a heaviness that filled his lungs with ice. He could almost believe he was drowning in it. He couldn't breathe. He could hardly think. He could only hold tight to Joe and pray they would make it—they would all make it to the relative security represented by those men in uniform.

He was almost there. Almost. He was close enough to see the look of shock rising in one young recruit's gaze when Ben's breath was truly stolen from him by an arrowhead as it embedded itself in his arm.

One arrow. Just one. Adam saw it hit his pa. And as bad as that was in itself, he saw where it had almost hit. If that arrow had not caught Pa in the arm, it would have caught Joe in the face.

Certain the arrow had been meant for Joe, Adam pulled on his reins and then turned his horse to look back at the Apaches. He saw one warrior standing alone. It was the same one, the warrior who had taunted them astride that Appaloosa, the one carrying Joe's saddlebags—the one responsible for the attack on Joe that had started all of this. He had separated himself from his tribesmen by several yards. Adam could only imagine the move had been meant to give him a better shot, improving his likelihood of hitting Joe one final time.

But why wait until now?

Adam looked to the warriors still holding their line in the distance. Something nagged at him, telling him this warrior was not simply standing alone, he was acting alone. Maybe in the absence of Cochise, this man sought status. Could that be all this was? A ploy to gain the rights of leadership? An act to show his superiority above other warriors?

For a long while each of those two stood alone, Adam on the side of the soldiers, and the Appaloosa warrior on the side of the Apaches. And then, almost without realizing it, Adam found himself moving closer, with the warrior matching him, step for step.

Before they reached one another, Adam stopped, but only for an instant. Sensing eyes on his back, he turned to find that Hoss had not followed Pa behind the soldiers' lines. Instead, Adam's brother seemed trapped by indecision. Responsibility to Adam was clearly drawing him out here, even while he had to know one careless move could start this war in truth.

Adam shook his head, hoping Hoss would understand. At that moment, it was just the two of them, just Adam and the warrior. If Hoss came forward that action could be seen as tipping the scales, it might even be viewed as the final, careless and deadly move needed to spur the rest of the Apaches into action.

_No_, Adam pleaded without words. _Stay where you are_.

And then he turned his attention back to the warrior.

Not until that moment did he truly realize there was only one way to end this, all of it.

"I'm sorry, Hoss," he whispered aloud as he dismounted and waited for the warrior to do the same.

**6**

"Why?" Adam asked as soon as the warrior was close enough.

In response, the warrior brandished a knife and began circling Adam, as though preparing for the kill. He glared at Adam, his eyes burning with hate.

"You want this, don't you?" Adam answered when the warrior held silent. "You want a war."

The warrior slashed at the air, a useless move perhaps intended to inspire fear. Adam almost laughed. He might have, if he weren't so angry for what this warrior had done to Joe.

"I don't think your people want war," Adam pressed on. "I think if they did, they would have already started one."

Maybe the warrior didn't understand English. Or maybe he understood it too well. He lunged at Adam, slashing his knife toward Adam's abdomen.

But Adam was ready for him. He dodged out of the way. Dropping to the ground, Adam grabbed a handful of sand and tossed it into the warrior's eyes, hoping it would buy him enough time to go for the knife.

It didn't. The warrior recovered too quickly. Adam felt fire when the sharp blade slid across his forearm. He rolled sideways. But the warrior moved with him, slashing and stabbing whenever he drew close. Adam felt the knife digging into his leg, his hand, skimming across his cheek.

In time he stopped feeling, or perhaps he stopped caring. Only then did he gain the edge he'd needed. Somehow he found himself on top of the warrior, his legs pinning the Apache's, his hands both wrapped around the warrior's wrist, pressing down with everything he had, determined to shatter bones.

The warrior pressed his free hand into Adam's throat, equally determined to strangle him. It almost worked. Adam couldn't breathe. His vision began to darken. He could sense his grip starting to weaken. But then, amazingly, the knife fell to the ground.

Adam knocked the warrior's hand from his throat and slammed a fist against the Apache's jaw.

Momentarily stunned, the warrior could not stop Adam from grabbing the knife.

In an instant, Adam held the blade against the warrior's neck.

In that instant, Adam felt hate rising up within him, seeming to burn him from the inside out. This man had tortured Little Joe. He might even have killed Joe; Adam had no way of knowing whether his brother was still alive.

Because this warrior had attacked him.

Attacked him and hung him up like a gutted deer.

Adam pressed the blade into the warrior's skin, drawing a thin line of blood. The sight inspired him to press harder, hate fueling murderous rage.

And then the warrior's gaze changed, shifting from a hate of his own to horror.

Horror.

This warrior, this murdering beast, this…this savage was terrified of Adam.

Stunned to find such savagery within himself, Adam drew away. He rose, panting as much from the strain of the fight as from the devil he'd nearly unleashed, and then he turned a slow circle, raising the knife high over his head to show both sides he had won, he had drawn blood, but he was not a killer. Finally, he threw the knife as far as he could, in a line parallel to the waiting armies.

Giving the warrior a quick glance, he turned to retrieve his horse, his gaze falling instead upon the Appaloosa.

Not a single Apache warrior stepped forward to prevent him from taking it.

**7**

The Army surgeon at Fort Buchanan spent several hours tending to Little Joe while medics saw to Ben and Adam. It was well past midnight before Dr. Graham announced he had done all he could. When he spoke to them, his prognosis gave Joe's family no comfort. That Joe had survived at all, he attributed more to God than to his own handiwork. And whether or not Joe survived through the night and into the coming days would remain in God's hands.

At dawn, Hoss found his pa at his expected perch by Joe's bedside. He placed a hand on Pa's shoulder, and looked down at an image of his little brother that seemed more like…like a painting that a reality. Joe did not look like Joe. It pained Hoss to think it, but it was like there was no life left in Little Joe.

"It's over, Pa," Hoss said, taking a deep breath and locking his gaze momentarily with Adam, who was approaching from the other side of the cot where Joe lay.

"What?" Pa seemed startled, or confused, his good hand reaching out instinctively toward Joe.

As Pa's fingers wrapped around Joe's arm, Hoss could almost believe Pa thought he could pull Joe right back to life, to the life of the reckless, mule-headed, spirited young man he was supposed to be.

Disturbed by his thoughts, Hoss shook his head and refocused on the news he had intended to provide.

"Colonel Miller parleyed with Cochise. The Apaches, they've all gone on home. There ain't gonna be a war. At least…not today. Sounds like Cochise didn't approve what was goin' on. He even returned the other horses."

Horses.

What did horses matter now? The only thing the Cartwrights needed to have returned to them was Little Joe. And men like Cochise or Colonel Miller, they sure didn't have that kind of power. All that time out in that desert, all that waiting and watching Little Joe slowly dying, minute by minute and hour by hour, it was all for nothing. Just one big waste.

At least Adam…. Well, Adam had the chance to go after the man who caused it all to start with. Hoss envied Adam for that. He looked at that cut on Adam's face, and the new clothes to replace the ones that warrior's knife had cut up—handed down from some soldier probably, one who didn't have need of them anymore—and he couldn't help but feel a small bit of satisfaction. He would have felt more satisfaction if it'd been him who'd gone after that warrior. But if it had, he wasn't so sure he'd have been able to stop when Adam did.

He supposed he was proud of Adam for that, for not killing a man, even one who probably deserved killing. It showed Adam had a special kind of strength, a kind that maybe the rest of those Apaches appreciated. Maybe that's why they chose to walk away.

Maybe. Hoss would never know for sure. None of them would. All he really knew was his little brother had gotten mixed up in an incident that almost led to the start of a war.

Part of Hoss almost wished it had started a war. Then maybe all Joe's suffering would have been vindicated somehow.

Maybe. But he doubted it. Nothing could make up for what Joe had gone through.

"How is he?" Hoss asked.

"Holding his own," Adam answered softly, the words sounding like they were spoken more out of habit that any real thought.

"He's fighting," Pa said then, his voice more firm than Hoss had heard it for a long time. "He is fighting." Pa emphasized the word, as though it was the most important thing of all.

"Can't."

The sound was faint, ghost-like. And Joe…well, it didn't even look like his lips moved. But Hoss saw the surprise in Adam's gaze, and the hope in Pa's, and he knew it had been Joe who had spoken.

"Joseph?" Pa called out to him, bending close to hear whatever Joe might manage to say.

"Can't, Pa."

Joe's eyes remained closed, his expression as still as it had been through the long night. Yet the words were his.

"Open your eyes, Joe," Pa pressed on. "Can you please, just open your eyes?"

"Can't…can't fight anymore."

Pa turned a concerned gaze to Hoss and Adam before giving his attention back to Joe. "You must, Little Joe! You must fight! You're winning, son. You're winning."

"Please," Joe's voice was getting stronger. His brow began to crease. "Please, just let me die."

Hoss was sure his own heart stopped beating. It looked to be the same for Pa and Adam, too.

"He don't mean it," Hoss said. "You know he don't mean it."

When he looked back at Joe, it was clear he was starting to come around. And hard as it was to realize, it seemed Joe just didn't want to.

Joe's face got all contorted, like he was in the worst kind of pain, and Hoss saw a tear spilling from Joe's eye.

"Please," Joe begged. "Please, let me die!"

**8**

How could God be so cruel? How could God leave Joe hanging in that tree, forever suspended between life and death, apart from everything, a part of nothing?

Joe had long ago given up hope that his family would find him. He was as lost to them as he was to himself. His entire existence was locked into pain—the agony of his wounds, the pull of his arms being stretched beyond endurance, maybe right out of their sockets, the fire in his wrists, and the white-hot emptiness in his eyes.

Had God still not heard him? Did his prayers mean nothing?

"He is fighting," Pa said.

No, Pa. I can't. Please don't. Don't make me stay out here like this.

"Joseph?"

I can't, Pa.

"Open your eyes, Joe," Pa pressed on. "Can you please, just open your eyes?"

No. I can't. I won't. It's too white. And besides, it didn't work before.

When Joe thought looking to God might be enough, when he believed speaking to God might be what God had been waiting for him to do, he'd been wrong. He was still trapped in Purgatory, still denied access to both Heaven and Hell and still held separate from the Earth.

"Can't…can't fight anymore." He tried to say it aloud, but wasn't sure whether or not he'd succeeded. He thought he heard his words, but how could he trust his ears? Pa was gone. He was miles away. And yet Joe could almost believe he'd heard him, as though Pa was right there beside him.

"You must, Little Joe!" Pa's voice demanded. "You must fight! You're winning, son. You're winning."

It wasn't fair. Why was God doing this to him, tormenting him with the sound of his pa's voice when he knew it couldn't be real? If Pa was really there, he would help Little Joe. Pa wouldn't leave Joe in the desert like that.

'_Listen only to the pulse of life_,' Pa had said once, long ago, when Joe was still alive, when he still had hope for life. '_Fight with it, not against it_.'

I just can't fight anymore.

'_Nature's always working for survival, not destruction_.'

But there should be more to survival than simply enduring pain, shouldn't there? There should also be hope. There should also be life!

"Please. Please just let me die."

"He don't mean it."

Hoss?

"You know he don't mean it."

No. It couldn't be Hoss. God was tricking him again.

"Please," Joe begged. "Please, let me die!"

"Open your eyes, Joe."

Adam?

"No," Joe cried out, frightened as much by the grating sound of his voice as by his realization that it wasn't God at all doing all this taunting. It couldn't be.

It was the devil.

"Stop. Please stop. Not…real."

He felt a hand in his then, warm fingers curling around his own.

How could that be? How could he be hanging by his wrists and still feeling that hand, as though…as though he wasn't hanging there at all?

"Look at me, Joe," Adam insisted. "Look at me! You're safe, Joe. Do you understand? It's over. You're safe."

Dare he believe it?

He was starting to feel…_different_, as though…as though he was…lying down…as though maybe Adam was right—if Adam was there at all.

But the devil was strong. He'd heard preachers say that often enough. What if the devil was just playing games? What if he opened his eyes and it all came back, worse than before? What if….

"Look at me, Joe!" Adam shouted.

Two hands held Joe's now, wrapping so tight around his fingers he could almost…almost believe it was real.

"It's over, Joe. You're safe."

"Safe?"

What if it was true? If he denied it, would he end up locking himself into Purgatory forever?

"Yes, son," Pa said softly. "You're safe."

Joe opened his eyes.

**9**

The moment Adam saw Joe's eyes he felt tears forming in his own. He almost looked away without thinking, accustomed to guarding his deepest emotions like some private treasure. But with Joe looking right at him, he couldn't turn away. Except…he began to realize Joe wasn't looking at him, not really. Little Joe seemed unwilling to let his own gaze reach Adam's. He got as far as Adam's nose—or perhaps the cut on Adam's cheek, and then it was Joe who turned away.

Adam watched his brother do the same with Hoss, and then Pa, before closing his eyes again.

"I'm sorry, Pa."

"Sorry?" Pa's eyes met Adam's even if Joe's would not, seeming to look for answers he had to know Adam couldn't possibly provide. "Joe," Pa went on then, "you didn't do anything wrong."

"I gave up."

"No. You most certainly did not give up."

"I did." Fresh tears spilled to the pillow beneath him. "I prayed." Joe's voice sounded strained and raspy. "I prayed to die."

"Joe," Pa closed his eyes for a second. "You must have been in…terrible, terrible pain."

"He didn't…God didn't hear me."

"He heard you, son."

Joe shook his head. It was just a slow movement to the left and then back again. "No. If He had…I wouldn't be…." Joe bit down on his lower lip, clearly fighting more than one kind of pain.

"He heard you, Joseph. He heard the prayers in your heart, the ones you couldn't hear yourself."

"I couldn't…didn't want to live like that."

"You didn't want to suffer any longer. Joe, no one can fault you for that. But deep down, in your heart you were still struggling to survive."

"No."

Pa met Adam's gaze again, but this time it was clear Pa had an answer Adam himself still couldn't find. It was an answer that seemed to give Pa strength.

"Joe," Pa said then, "a short while ago you asked me what a man should do when another man is begging to die, when he's hurt so badly he can no longer endure the pain. Do you remember what I said?'

Joe's slow nod gave him no comfort, seeming instead to sharpen his pain, deepening the creases in his brow.

"I heard you," Joe said in a rough whisper. "Out there…in the desert…I heard you. You told me to…fight with the pulse of life. But I couldn't, Pa. I just…I couldn't."

"You could, Joe. And you did. You never stopped fighting. You simply stopped being aware of the struggle. Joe, when we had that conversation, I also told you never to listen to the man who begs to die. The reason I told you that is because even though in his mind he believes he can no longer endure the pain, in his heart he is still struggling to survive. Just as you were, out there. God heard your prayers, son. He heard the ones that mattered, the ones in your heart. And the ones in ours."

Pa said it like it was a proclamation.

"Joe," Pa added then, "you may have stopped hearing that pulse of life, but we, your brothers and I, we never did." His gaze moved between Adam and Hoss, as though daring them to deny it. "You weren't alone out there, son. You were never, never alone."

Finally Joe's eyes fluttered open once more, sending a new stream of tears to the pillow. He looked first to his pa, and then to Hoss before making his way back to Adam.

Adam allowed himself a small, warm smile when Joe's gaze met his. And before Joe turned away again, Adam nodded, finding no words strong enough to express the message intended by that insignificant gesture.

A tear slipped past Adam's internal, private sentries, then. He didn't bother to wipe it away. Instead he cleared his throat and said, "Thank you, Joe."

The crease in Joe's brow returned. This time in confusion.

"Hoss told me about the Appaloosa. He's quite an animal."

When Joe's expression turned sorrowful once more, Adam added, "I'm afraid if we don't get him home soon the Army's going to requisition him."

"Home?" Joe asked.

Adam nodded again. "The Apaches gave him back. In fact, they also gave us back the horse you were riding, and another one. A gray mare. You, uh, want to tell us about that one?"

"Amanda," Joe rasped as his eyes slipped closed once more. This time Adam could tell the action was prompted by weariness, nothing more.

"Amanda?" Hoss repeated. "That's an odd name for a mare."

"Tucker's daughter," Joe answered. "Long story."

"I bet," Adam said. "I'll look forward to hearing it."

"Maybe."

"What do you mean 'maybe'? Maybe I shouldn't look forward to it, or maybe you won't tell it?"

"Just…maybe."

After Joe's voice trailed off, Adam stepped around the cot, squeezed his pa's shoulder and started to move away, pulling Hoss along with him.

"Adam?" Joe called out suddenly, his voice soft but clear. "Just so you know…, that's the last time I get anyone a special horse."

Adam smiled. "I'd say that's probably a good idea."

A moment later, Adam and Hoss stepped outside, finding themselves walking toward the corral.

"You know, Hoss, if Joe was in my place right now he'd take that Appaloosa out for the longest, fastest ride he could."

Hoss eyed him worriedly. "Don't you go thinkin' like that, Adam. If that Apache saw you, I reckon he'd—"

"Hoss! I said 'if Joe was in my place.' But he's not. And as much as I'd like to go for a ride, I'll wait until we get back home."

Still, Adam looked at that horse, and at that long stretch of desert, and he couldn't help but feel a pang of envy for his youngest brother, along with an even stronger pang of regret. The sight of Little Joe hanging from that tree was sure to haunt Adam and the rest of his family for a long time to come. No horse was worth what Joe had gone through, not even that Appaloosa. And as much as he'd love to take a ride, it would have made Adam far happier if he had never seen that horse in the first place.

"Bittersweet," Adam said aloud.

"Huh?"

"The Appaloosa. I think I'll name him Bittersweet."

"Bittersweet?" Hoss curled his nose.

"Yeah. Maybe not."

~ _The End_ ~


End file.
